– Look who finally decided to show up! – exclaimed David Peterson. – Well, you can turn right back around! – Dad, what’s gotten into you?

**Diary Entry**

“Look who finally decided to show up!” bellowed Richard Thompson. “You might as well turn right back around!”

“Dad, whats gotten into you?” Andrew frowned, taken aback. “Twenty years Ive been gone, and this is the welcome I get?”

“If it were up to me, Id have met you with a belt!” Richard grabbed at his waistband, eyes blazing. “But no matterwell settle this now!”

“Easy there!” Andrew stepped back, raising his hands. “Im not a child anymoreI can fight back if I have to!”

“There it isyour true colours!” Richard spat, still gripping the belt. “Bullying the weak, running from the strong, deceiving the good, serving the wicked!”

“What are you accusing me of?” Andrews shoulders slumped. “Even if I *was* guilty of something, twenty years have passed! Shouldnt it be forgiven by now?”

“Easy for you to sayyoure the one who wants absolution! Well, I wont give it!” Richard snapped.

“Then tell mewhat did I *do*? At university, I spent years wondering why my own parents branded me a traitor, barred me from home, ignored my letters!”

“You mean you *dont know*?” Richard sneered.

Andrews confusion only deepened, but before he could press further, his mother, Margaret, stormed in.

“God help me!” she cried. “The devils own luck bringing *him* here! Richard, throw him out! The shame of itour grey hairs disgraced!”

Andrew froze, stunned. Margaret wasnt done.

“If I had the strength, Id thrash you with a poker! But I see the Lords marked you already.” She jabbed a finger at the bruise under his eye.

“Someone landed a good one!” Richard chuckled. “Id shake their hand.”

“Mum, Dadhave you lost your minds?” Andrews voice cracked. “Twenty years, and this is how you greet me?”

“Who gave you that shiner?” Richard demanded. “Well chase you off now, but Ill thank him later!”

“How should I know?” Andrew snapped. “I took the coach home! Then our neighbour Peter recognised memade a fuss. Next thing I know, some bloke sucker-punches me, spits in my face, and legs it!”

“A true hero,” Richard smirked. “Ill ask Peter who did it.”

“Thats *all* you care about? Not that Ive been gone two decades?”

“And why should we want a *traitor* back?” Margaret hissed.

“Traitor? *How?*”

“Because!” a third voice shouted from the kitchen.

“And whos *this* brave soul?” Andrew turned as a young man stepped into view.

“Thats the little rat who hit me!” Andrew pointed.

“Well done, grandson!” Richard clapped the lads shoulder. “Seized the moment!”

“Grandson? *What?*”

“Thats right!” Margaret shoved between them. “*Your* son. The one you abandoned!”

“I dont *have* a son!” Andrew recoiled. “If I did, Id know!”

“Then remember why you ran from this village twenty years ago!” Richards voice broke.

***

Andrew never called it *running*. His departure was plannedjust moved up a few weeks. There were reasons.

The journey was longcrossing half the country. He was headed to university but left early to secure work and lodgings before term started. The stipend wouldnt cover much, and asking his parents for money was out of the question. They could barely afford postage for care packages.

But there was another reason. The village had grown restless. Had he delayed, he might never have left. Marriage offers poured in*that* was what he fled.

To the inevitable *”Why?”* hed say:

“I wanted a life at sea. Leaving a wife behind while I sailed? Not for me. I wont grow horns on my own watch!”

The sea came by chance. After school, hed served in the Navy, discovered land wasnt for him, and secured a place at maritime college. Before term, he indulged in the usual post-service revelrydrinking, brawling, chasing skirtsbut always kept his wits. Hed even wired his belt shut once or twice. Better discomfort than a lifetime of regret.

His restraint made him *more* desirable to village girls. A young man with prospects, clean reputationno messy entanglements. Parents lobbied his own, delegations arriving with offers.

Realizing resistance was futile, Andrew left early.

*God helps those who help themselves.*

He found work at the docks, a bunk in student housing, sent word hed arrived safely. Their reply? A venomous letter disowning him, branding him coward, traitor, worse. No explanation.

He wrote, begged for answers. Silence.

By graduation, one last letter camehalf a notebook page:

*”Drown yourself. Traitor. Coward.”*

Signed not *Mum and Dad*, but *Richard and Margaret Thompson*.

He signed onto a ship. Every six months, hed send a letter homehopelessly. At forty, he *needed* answers.

The reunion was anything but warm.

“Whyd I leave?” Andrew echoed bitterly. “To stop you marrying me off to half the village! You think I didnt see the deals, the gifts? I was *going to university*, and you still schemed!”

“We wanted you settled!” Margaret shot back. “Instead, you got *Natasha* pregnant and bolted!”

“*Who?*”

“She came to us after you left,” Richard said. “Said she was carrying your child. Asked for our help. Were we supposed to turn our grandson away?”

“When did she come?”

“A month after you left. She said shed written to youthat you told her to get rid of it!”

Andrew laughed coldly. “Call her here. Lets settle this.”

“Shes dead,” the boy*Stan*said. “Ten years now. Gran and Grandad raised me.”

“Perfect,” Andrew muttered. “And my *son* greeted me with a fist.”

“You deserved worse! Abandoning Mum like that!” Stan shouted.

“So *all* of you are saints, and Im the villain?”

“Damn right!” Richard growled.

“Fine. DNA test. If hes mine, nail me to the door. If notyoull see.”

The test proved Stan wasnt his.

Andrew handed them the results. “Clear enough? Natasha knew. She played you. But the real tragedy? You *believed* your son was a coward. Twenty years, not a shred of doubt.”

He turned to leave. “Dont bother forgiving me now. You threw me out long ago.”

Stan stayed. And until their dying day, he milked them dryinsisting the test was wrong, his mother a saint.

Like mother, like son.

**Lesson learned:** Trust is fragile. Once broken, even truth wont always mend it.